


life during wartime

by betternovembers



Series: life during wartime [1]
Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Edge of Tomorrow AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4619652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betternovembers/pseuds/betternovembers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beca gets better at a lot of things. Mostly dying. (An Edge of Tomorrow AU. Watching the movie prior to reading is highly recommended.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	life during wartime

 

 _this ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco  
_ _this ain’t no fooling around_

 

 

* * *

 

 

She keeps a running tally of the number of resets. It’s the same number as all the times Beale has died. It’s also the same number for her own various endings too, of course, but that matters less.

She doesn’t need paper, not that some scrap with hashmarks would stick anyway. Reset 105’s still the worst, even though it was one of the earlier ones. Quick for Beca (practice makes perfect, suicide is painless, etc. etc) but Beale had taken a solid ten minutes to go, blood in her teeth and her fingers digging into Beca’s wrist, watching her, unable to talk.

After 105, she gets better at resetting Beale too.

Self-preservation starts to take new and interesting forms.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Beca tells herself that her job is _fucking important_ , even if it seems like all of her superior officers disagree and most nights she pretty much thinks it’s bullshit too. But she can make music, she can entertain, and when there’s not much else left at the end of the world, at least she can cling to her songs, her voice, her hands that have never been forced to hold a gun.

She doesn’t look at the soldiers on the bases that they send her to, not too closely. Enough to see if she’s made them forget, for a few hours, but not at their faces. Never in their eyes. She had asked once how many of them would survive the next battle. Once had been enough.

It _is_ fucking important these kids—and that’s what they are, kids—maybe get one get one last night to be happy, to remember what it was like before, when radios played music and hot showers existed and courage maybe actually made a fucking difference if you lived or died.

Beca’s not great at a lot of things, but she’s good at adapting. And putting just enough into a smile that it doesn’t look empty.

And music. She’s great at the music. That’s why they keep her around.

And then everything goes to shit.

Fast.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s her anniversary. The big five hundred. At least, she’s pretty sure.

She celebrates by stealing a motorcycle and fucking off. She doesn’t think about Beale, about the beach or getting _off_ the fucking beach, about thumbing the safety off her weapon and shooting with her eyes closed. She just rides, until she hits London, gray and empty and too too quiet.

The posters are still up, even with everyone gone. _To victory_. Beale’s royal fucking bitch face in all its glory, _join the UDF_. The enlistment centers are closed now anyway. The posters are everywhere, if you can even call them posters. Some of them are banners, the whole height of buildings. In Trafalgar Square, there are smaller ones, and they’re next to a whole row of her own face, smirking and so so clean, with a date and the support base out in Bromley listed below. From _before_. She doesn’t even remember that show now, though technically it’s only from a few weeks ago, if she’s playing by the rules. She slows the bike down long enough to take one long look at where her posters overlap Beale’s, how their faces look next to each other.

It’s all propaganda; it’s all so fucked up, using them to pretend like it’s a great idea to join the fleet and promptly get yourself killed. At least you’ll get a free show first.

The most fucked up part of all is that Beale’s eyes are even more blue in person.

(When the mimics finally swarm up the Thames, Beca is drunk and unsteady and alone.)

(But she’s always alone for the end.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

She throws up the first time she’s in the suit, the day she dies the first time. She’s between Conrad and Adams on the carrier; Conrad looks disgusted and Adams laughs, sharp and mocking.

“You want to make a bet, rook?” Adams asks, suddenly all business. “You make it today, I’ll give you a hundred. You don’t, I take all your shit once we’re back on base.”

Beca spits, and tries to send it in the general direction of Adams. Her shoulders hurt. She doesn’t look up.

“Shit, you don’t even have to agree. I’ll honor it if you walk off that beach today. I’m good for it, rook.” Adams laughs again, but it’s the last thing she says to Beca before the carrier gets hit and it all goes to hell.

Beca wonders, much later, how much easier it would have been if she had died before she even hit the beach.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It takes her a while to figure Beale out. To see some glimpses of the person she was before she became the Angel of Verdun, just before in general. Most of it happens when they’re in the van, after they get off the beach, once Beca figures out after a few tries how to kill the mimic in the camper. (Beale keeps dying in the driver’s seat, which is highly inconvenient for them both.)

The hills are still green, the highways empty enough. Beale doesn’t like to talk about herself; most of the time she talks about books she read before. _The Brothers Kamarazov_ , _A Farewell to Arms_. Beca’s not entirely sure she’s ever read a novel with a happy ending, ever.

Beca gets a name though, a couple weeks in to attempting the drive. Posen. Definitely from before, and Beale somehow gets more tense, as if a thing were even physically possible.

“She was my best friend,” is all Beale tells her, “she’s dead.” Beale has her own count that lives inside her head and that’s the end of that discussion. Beca’s learned when not to push too hard. But Beca _knows_. If Beale puts two and two together, she doesn’t say. But that’s not her style anyway, at least not the Beale that Beca knows.

Beca starts up a game of I Spy. Her two options are grass and abandoned cars. There are no birds. Beale looks over and gives her the smallest hint of a real smile Beca’s ever gotten (the ones she got when Beale shoots her in the head during training don’t count, they’re aggressive and charmless). But she’s earned this one. She’s earned it fair and square.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They fuck once. Beale finds her in the showers, the night before. By the time she realizes Beale’s behind her she barely has enough time before she’s pinned her to the wall. Which is disgusting, but she’s not going to complain. They’ll both probably be dead in less than twenty-four hours, and Beale won’t even remember this.

(She will.)

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Beale says against her neck before she bites at Beca’s shoulder.

Beca’s hands are on Beale’s hips. There’s no intention to pull Beale in closer; it just happens. The water is lukewarm at best; there’s no privacy, not that anyone but her gives a shit about that. Beale’s thigh is in between her own.

It doesn’t take long; it’s been a while and despite all evidence to the contrary, Beca is only human. She tries not to look, because remembering the details of this is going to be worse than a lot of the other shit she has to remember, but she can’t help it. The way Beale’s arm flexes between them, the unsettling way she holds eye contact with Beca, her hair plastered against her forehead, the way she huffs in annoyance when Beca makes the mistake of trying to be gentle.

It’s just—the moments she gets to feel Beale’s pulse actually _beating_ are so rare. She’d be fucking crazy to pass this one up.

When she’s recovered enough to return the favor, she uses three fingers, her mouth.

Beale is beautiful. There’s no denying it, or the fact that she’s just. So _fucked_. There’s beauty in the way Beale fights, the way the suit is part of her, rather than the other way around. How her blade is an extension of herself, not a tool.

Sometimes Beale lets her hold her at the end, if there’s time. There usually isn’t, but sometimes. Beca learns the weight of cradling Beale’s head, and how it changes, from before to after.

Beale has a scar on her forehead. She has more, practically everywhere, Beale wears this war  across her skin. But it’s the one on her forehead that Beca cares about the most. There’s one reset where she just waits—a long time—for a mimic to come, when she traces the scar with the pad of her thumb. She’s not sure why she always feels the need to touch it, to feel where skin knit itself back together, to feel a place where Beale has healed on her own. She doesn’t even try to now, with Beale panting, hot and harsh, in her ear. She just holds on as long as Beale will let her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She wakes up.

(It goes about as well as it always does.)

Beale dies.

(Other people do too, but that’s an abstract concept. Acceptable losses.)

She resets.

She wakes up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“There’s nothing here, Mitchell.” Beale’s already through the back door of the farmhouse. She does the same thing every time. But this is Beca’s favorite part (even though this is the worst part of the resets yet, really, because she can’t fucking figure it out, Beale _always_ fucking insists on the helicopter). Sometimes she can stretch it out for days, if she works hard enough, if Beale’s injury is in a bad spot. Depends. There’s coffee, there’s sugar, there’s Beale in the soft yellow glow of the end of the world in a farmhouse in France, and a blanket she finds in a closet on the second floor of the house.

She doesn’t stop trying to get them past here, this moment—but that’s not entirely true either.

It’s the twelfth time at the house, when she finally calls her something other than Beale (or “fucking bitch,” if she’s being perfectly honest) for the first time. Beale’s half in the helicopter, looking at the instrument panels when she lets out a grunt. Beca’s intimately aware of what each one of Beale’s grunts mean, and this one means hurt. Beca slides up behind her, careful not to startle her, and when she touches her fingers to Beale’s side, they come away red.

“Chloe,” she says, and that’s all. And Beale actually stops, also new. Stands there and lets Beca peel her jacket back and get a look, and it’s _bad_.

Beca knows there’s needle and thread in a chest in the master bedroom, bandages in the medicine cabinet. She’s gotten good at stitches.

Beale— _Chloe_ prefers the barn to the farmhouse. There’s a wood stove, an old chair covered in cobwebs next to the door. Beca drags it out, tries to wipe off the worst of it, and glares at Chloe until she actually sits.

Beca gets the fire going next, and she can feel Chloe watching her, can hear how her breathing sounds like it’s taking an effort.

“You’re allowed to talk, you know, let me know you’re not dead yet.” she says, keeping her tone light, not looking away from the pile of wood to pretend like she’s working out which pieces are dry.

“You’re an idiot,” Chloe says back, and it’s been long enough that Beca can tell Chloe is edging into affection. She glances over her shoulder, even though she knows better. Chloe’s got her hand pressed to her side, and she’s got that same fucking hint of a smile even while she’s at risk of actually bleeding out.

Beca doesn’t dignify it with a response, just stacks a few pieces of wood and makes her way back to the stove. The matches are always fine, and it’s easy enough to throw a few leaves in as tinder. It’s not cold, not yet, but it will be later.

Chloe shrugs off the other side of her jacket while Beca watches. “This will be easier if we—”

“Yeah. You’re going to have to help me.” And this is the first time Chloe’s ever asked her for help with anything, except, of course, for Beca to take her to the Omega. So she stays quiet and doesn’t acknowledge it, just crouches down in front of Chloe to pull up the bottom of her shirt.

“Arms up.” Chloe hisses when she takes her hand away, but complies. And stares at her, the way Beca looks at her, like maybe she knows that Beca’s seen this before. Chloe’s good at knowing a lot of things she probably shouldn’t.

“Oh, yeah. I’m pretty confident about all this.” And there’s the Full Metal Bitch smirk, but it softens into something else.

“You should be,” Beca says, and means it.

  


Beca kneels on the floor of the barn while she stitches Chloe back together, and Chloe watches the entire time. She keeps her hands on her knees, and stays still. Another thing from before that Beca misses: painkillers.

There’s not a lot of clean water in the house, but she uses as much as she can spare to clean Chloe off before putting the bandage on.

“Stay there. There’s probably a blanket. I’ll go look.”  Chloe just nods, and Beca knows she’s fighting the urge to pass out.

She doesn’t bother to pretend to look, just jogs back across to the house and gets the blanket, the one pillow left on the sofa, two of the cans of soup still in the pantry.

Chloe makes it another fifteen minutes, and Beca gets most of one of the cans of soup into her before she falls asleep. Beca’s next to her, knees pulled up under her chin, watching the fire. Chloe reaches out and puts a hand on her calf.

“I used to sing too, before.” Chloe’s eyes are closed, in pain, from her side or from remembering, Beca’s not sure. “I was good too, maybe even better than you.”

“Just because you almost died doesn’t mean you get to be a bitch all the time, Beale. If you knew this whole time what I did, I’m pretty sure I’ve got the edge on you.”

“Prove it.” And there’s the Beale special, backing her into something she’s totally unprepared for. She hasn’t sung for—she doesn’t even know how long it’s been now. A year and a half? Maybe two?  She’s quiet for too long, because Chloe’s fingers dig in a little at the back of her leg.

“C’mon, Mitchell. Something good.”

So Beca takes Chloe’s hand and sings her the only song she can think of.

  


Chloe wakes up before she does, finds the keys to the helicopter on her own. Beca isn’t even awake to warn her about the mimic in the next field over, to have the same old argument about leaving Chloe here, in the basement with the rest of the food and water. She comes to at the first sound of the rotors spinning up, chest on fire, already screaming for Chloe to stop.

This is always as far as Chloe goes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She gets used to Beale shooting her between the eyes, to broken bones, to not being able to move her legs. Collapsed lungs are her least favorite. There’s forty resets in a row that end with Beale standing over her, indifferent and impatient and her weapon coming up to Beca’s forehead.

She gets faster at getting Beale to understand that she’s like her, at Verdun. She starts figuring out how to get more out of their training sessions, to ask for what’s next so she can remember. Beale starts shooting her less. She never gains muscle, there’s only memory. It’s all mental. She gets better. She’s always been good at adapting.

She gets better at dying.

It doesn’t stop hurting though.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Chloe, _no_.”

Chloe’s pushing the grenades into her hands, her jaw set, and Beca knows she’s not going to win this argument. They’re both hurt, Beca’s leg is next to useless and Chloe’s bleeding under her eye.

Chloe rests her forehead against Beca’s, just for a second. She’s struggling to catch her breath. There’s a noise—too close—the Alpha, and Beca’s hands finally close around the grenades.

“You’re a good woman, Mitchell.” Even at the end, Chloe is just _Chloe_. It’s too dark for Beca to see how blue her eyes are, but all she can do is stare. It’s the end of the road. Beca can be selfish, just for a minute. “I wish I had the chance to know you better.”

And then she kisses Beca, for the first time.

And then she’s running, and not looking back.

And then Beca falls, for the last time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Beca wakes up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Everything is the same at Heathrow. Conrad and Adams, the rest of B Squad. Swanson’s probably at his station on the line, knowing that someone’s responsible but not who or how.

Honestly, Beca doesn’t give a fuck about any of them right now.

They clear a path for her in the hangar. She’s in full dress, her cap tucked under her arm, hair down because the war’s over and there’s nothing the United Defense Forces can do to her that she’s going to care about.

She turns the corner, and Chloe— _Beale_ —she hasn’t earned Chloe yet, not this time around, is there. Like always. Sweaty and dirty and perfect, blue eyes and arms, a scar, a beating heart.

Beale’s up in a heartbeat, in her face, asking her who the fuck she thinks she is.

Beca smiles.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ugotitbad.mp3 for the support. Title/quote from Talking Heads - Life During Wartime.


End file.
